When Master Meets his Match
by Werewolf Master
Summary: Holmes and Watson are summoned onto the scene of the newest case by Lestrade. Holmes, in all his brilliance, has no problem solving the case, but meets his match when a child is thrust upon him. Watson and Lestrade both have trouble containing their mirth
1. The Meeting

I recall quite vividly, to this day without consulting my notes, one particularly memorable occasion which turned out to be more comical than tragic when my friend Sherlock Holmes' abilities were called into use. I say comical, not because of the case itself on which Scotland yard consulted him, but because of a specific event which I found to be particularly amusing.

It was nearing seven in the evening when there came a knock on the door of our sitting room and a telegram was delivered to my friend. I watched Holmes as he read this note and noted the change in his expression from one of boredom, to one of interest, to the expression only worn by Holmes when he'd been captured by a wonderfully baffling case—the kind that he required to keep his brilliant mind occupied.

"Watson! There is no time to waste—quickly, your coat!" he cried, jumping from his chair as if it were a hot coal, and dashing for his coat and hat.

Puzzled, but in no mood to argue with my companion I stood and followed his example—in less than two minutes we were out the door, on the street and in a cab.

"Holmes, what—?" I didn't have time to finish the question before he gave me a tut of impatience and thrust the telegram under my nose. It read as follows.

_Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_Usually we would not consult you for matters of arson—but this one is particularly trivial and I remember your liking for such cases. The house in question was an uninhabited house; burned not to the ground as one would think it should be, but burned in bits, with certain parts of walls nothing more than ash and the wall inches from them unharmed. Though this is easily explained with the proper investigation, the presence of people in the house could not be. _

_Inside the house was found the body of a badly charred and definitely dead man, and a still-living child who is too talk yet. We would much appreciate your professional advice._

_Lestrade_

"Peculiar…" I murmured, unable to think of anything else to describe it as I handed the telegram back to Holmes. "What do you make of it?"

"Me? Nothing at all, of course. You know my methods, Watson; it would be foolish to attempt to form theories without proper evidence first," I should have know as much.

We were on the scene soon after and found the house just as Lestrade had described it. It didn't actually look like it had been set on fire, more as if something had exploded from within it. There wasn't much left of any fire; in fact the only evidence that it had once been aflame was the thickly-smoky air, and the ash that littered the yard all around it.

Already a large crowd of passersby were gathering, held off the yard by several members of Scotland Yard. The only people standing on the other side of the wall of police were Lestrade himself, a young woman who, observation learned from Holmes told me, was a doctor, and a child no older than two years of age—if even—who must have been the one referred to by Lestrade. The doctor was holding the youngster, who looked not only scarred out of her wits, but on the verge of bawling, which, by the looks of the tracks in the soot on her face, had only just stopped.

Holmes and I made our way through the crowd and were admitted into the yard by the police officers and thankfully welcomed by Lestrade, who looked to be in over his head.

"I'm glad you've come, Holmes," Lestrade said, certainly sounding it. "I've kept everyone off the yard and out of the house—but I caution you to watch your step if you're going in there, it looks about ready to fall any moment now."

"Thank you Lestrade, you've outdone yourself," Holmes said with a slight sarcastic note to his sharp voice.

Before Lestrade could work out the fact that this wasn't really a compliment, Holmes was off, searching every inch of the yard, looking like a hound on a trail.

Finding it hopeless to try and help him, I, instead, introduced myself to the doctor on the premises as her fellow in the medical field. The woman, whose name I learned shortly to be Saphrin, was quite pleasant to talk to and appeared to be as much at home with a baby on her hip as she was with her medical knowledge. I presumed, from this observation, that she was often around children and, thus, that she was a mother of several—though why on earth a mother of several would be working I had no idea and considered it was safer to leave deductions like this to Holmes in the future; perhaps all women were at home with children.

In any case, Dr. Saphrin and I chatted pleasantly, in spite of the none-to-pleasant circumstances, while Holmes paced back and forth with his nose to the ground, and Lestrade watching him with hopeful eyes. Soon Holmes had disappeared into the ruins of the house; and then returned with a look of triumph upon his face.

"Well Lestrade, you need not have been so puzzled," Holmes said returned from the ruins, dusting his hands off. "Oh, and Doctor," he added, his face suddenly becoming more serious, "I believe that the one you're holding is not the only survivor in this tragedy—on the second story in the back room—" but Holmes didn't have time to finish his sentence before she had thrust the child she was holding into his arms and disappeared into the crumbling house herself.

I had never before, and have never since, since a look upon my friend's face that was so bewildered and out of place as when he found himself holding the child. It was, to say the very least, the most comical look I have ever seen upon his face. It was not only his expression, which consisted half of horror, half of confusion and bewilderment, which told me he had never before been in charge of a human younger than 12, but the way he held her.

Dr. Saphrin had stood quite comfortably with the child perched on her hip, and one arm looped around her keeping her there. Holmes, however, held the child out at arms length, looking at her with bemusement. Unable to contain myself, I gave a short laugh to relieve the pressure of amusement building up inside me. The sound seemed to awaken Holmes from his state of confusion and he attempted to adjust his grip on the child to a more stable position.

"Holmes, old man, would you like me to take her?" I asked, hardly able to control my amusement as he tried several different ways to hold the child without any success.

"No, certainly not. I can deal with a child," Holmes said in his stubborn manner, finally settling the child in his arms in what would have been nearly the same position as Dr. Saphrin had held her, if Holmes had hips.

"Oh, yes, of course," I said quickly, still amused, "You just looked rather out of place and I just thought…." I let my voice trail off; Holmes said nothing though the expression on his face was an indignant one at being thought unable to hold a child.

The infant, meanwhile, was looking at Holmes with an expression which looked nearly identical to the one he had worn when she had first been forced upon him. He looked down at her, spotted the expression and looked slightly startled.

"Watson…" He said, not taking his eyes off the infant, "Watson she's looking at me oddly."

I was hardly able to contain my amusement at this comment, and thus, did not reply for fear of bursting into laughter and tears if I opened my mouth.

To my right, Inspector Lestrade appeared torn between amusement, curiosity, and confusion. Even the bulldog-like inspector couldn't help but be amused by the current happenings, but he did seem to be wondering whether he should interrupt to find out what Holmes thought of his case, he also seemed confused by my occasional spurts of laughter and Holmes' general reaction to the infant he was now holding.

The transfer from Dr. Saphrin to Holmes did have one good effect on the child, however—she no longer seemed on the brink of tears. In fact, quite to the contrary, she was looking up at my friend with a look of the deepest mistrust I've ever seen written on such a young face. Having gotten over the initial shock of being transferred from a caring, motherly figure, into the hands of a man who didn't even know how to hold her, she seemed to be under the impression that Holmes wasn't the sort of person to be trusted as her current protector.

Holmes, on the other hand, attempted to ignore this and looked up at Lestrade, attempting to explain his take on the situation as the infant tugged at his jacket as if inspecting it for her approval. He proceeded with his explanation, pausing occasionally to look warily down at the child, who immediately stopped whatever she was doing on these occasions, and looked up at him with big blue eyes as if daring him to accuse her of doing something untrustworthy.

Though I was interested in Holmes' explanation—which he seemed to have come to very quickly, considering Lestrade's confusion on the case—I was more amused by the occasional pauses in which he and the child looked at each other, and several times was unable to contain myself and burst into random fits of laughter, which confused Lestrade and irritated Holmes.

Half-way through Holmes' explanation of the case and his support of his conclusion, the infant in his arms began attempting to wriggled free of his grip, causing Holmes to stop abruptly, mid-sentence, and look down at her as she continued to try and dive from his arms. Holmes adjusted his grip on her, looking slightly unsure as to whether he should let her get down, or continue to hold her; it was obvious what she wanted, but it also was obvious that if he let her down someone would have to follow her around and make sure she didn't get into trouble.

Back in his confused state, Holmes gripped her with two hands and held her out and arms length as he had done upon first receiving her. She continued to wriggle for a moment before deciding it was futile and looking at him with a very disgruntled look printed upon her small face. Upon finding that her first attempt had not worked, she began to fuss, subtly at first, then more loudly and obviously; attracting the attention of several of those who were standing behind the line of Scotland yard officers.

Holmes, looking startled, put her back in the position she had been in attempt to hush her fussing. This didn't work, however, and he seemed to be growing increasingly nervous as more eyes turned towards him.

"Watson!" Holmes said with a note of panic in his voice, "Watson, what did I do!?"

"Well Holmes," I started to say, but was unable to continue as my speech turned into laughter at the panic-stricken look on my usually cool-minded and composed companion's face. "I... think… she wants… you to put... her… on the… ground…" my advice to him was something like this, punctuated with frequent intervals of laughing.

"Now Watson, this is no laughing matter!" Holmes said, trying to keep the note of panic from his voice, but failing, if I don't say so myself, quite horribly. "Can't you see I'm attracting attention? These people will think I'm abusing her or something!" he added in an urgent whisper.

I managed to stifle my laughter long enough to explain to him that anyone who had any sense as far as children were concerned knew that they fussed and complained even when no harm was being brought to them—and had harm been brought to her she would have been all-out bawling.

"But what should I do?" Holmes asked again, shifting uncomfortably and moving the complaining child from one side of his waist to the other.

"You could put her down," I suggested unable to prevent myself from grinning.

Holmes put action to my words but, much to his distress, she simply threw herself upon the ground in a temper tantrum.

"It didn't work, Watson," Holmes said urgently, sounding uncannily like a school boy consulting his master. "What should I do next?"

"Put her in her bed until she stops," I suggested still amused.

"Now _really, _Watson!" Holmes insisted, glancing at Lestrade.

Lestrade, whom my attention had previously been distracted from, currently looked as if he was trying very hard to contain the urge to point and laugh at my friend. Certainly it must have been quite degrading to Holmes to be caught in this situation, witnessed by a man who he was considered the superior of.

"Pick her up, Mr. Holmes—she will stop when she realizes it's not getting her what she wants," that advice had come from neither me, nor Lestrade as we were both preoccupied with mirth.

Holmes, who seemed relieved to have advice but not too comforted by the fact that the advice banked upon the eventual stopping of the child's bawling, and not the immediate halt, picked her up. The child buried her dirty face in Holmes jacket and bawled, grabbing fistfuls of his once-clean jacket and shaking them. Holmes, still looking disconcerted, looked up to see where this advice had come from.

Dr. Saphrin had returned from the house, she had already called for a few of the present police officers to retrieve her patient from inside the damaged building, and was now looking at Holmes, her expression impossible to read.

"You-you are sure she'll stop?" Holmes asked tentatively.

"Of course. Children only have so much energy, just like the rest of us—they can only keep up such tasks for a certain amount of time, after which they will almost always fall asleep," she said, looking not at Holmes now, but at the child in his arms, who already seemed to be loosing some of her will to carry on bawling. "Inspector Lestrade, I've taken the liberty of having some of your men bring down the other surviving member of the fire. I'll need transportation for him." And with Lestrade's consent she turned about and hurried off to see to the care of her patient.

Lestrade turned, making to call for a cabbie, but Holmes stopped him.

"What shall I do with the child?" he asked; this was, after all, Lestrade's jurisdiction.

"Oh I think she's taken quite a liking to you, Mr. Holmes, You can keep her, if you'd like," and before Holmes could string together two coherent words of objection Lestrade was off into the crowd.

"_Keep _her?!" Holmes rounded on me, looking appalled by the thought. "I can't even hold her!"


	2. Mrs Hudson

It is not usual that I should record stories not in accord with the brilliant detective work of my friend Sherlock Holmes

It is not usual that I should record stories not in accord with the brilliant detective work of my friend Sherlock Holmes. This disclaimer given, I feel that I should inform my readers that it is only through their very persistent naggings that I have agreed to continue the story of Mr. Holmes and his very bizarre predicament, of which I have already begun to inform you. It is true that after the closure of the case which Holmes so expertly solved in a few moments of inspection, we returned together to our rooms at 221B Baker Street with one more addition to our party.

I had lost track of time by then, all I knew was that I was cold, weary, and very much in the mood for one of Mrs. Hudson's excellent dinners. On the other hand, I had yet to grow weary of the confused stare with which Holmes fixed the new addition.

She had, shortly after the disappearance of the female doctor on the scenes, fallen asleep with her tiny fists closed on handfuls of Holmes' shirt. It had once been clean, alas, it was no more—I regret to inform my readers that Mrs. Hudson was very much disgruntled with him at this.

But I digress. The child had, as I said, fallen asleep with Holmes holding her, rather awkwardly, I might add, and remained thus through the entire ride home. I glanced over at the two of them only on occasion, and for very brief intervals of time, not wanting to attract the suspicion of Holmes, who was still in a rather defensive mood. I had come to the conclusion that she was quite a cute child earlier on in the evening—by the time the cabbie stopped in front of our rooms on Baker Street I was firmly convinced that she was the most adorable one I had set eyes on in my life.

In any case, I did not have much more time to study her. As the cab stopped, Holmes peered cautiously around the child in his lap, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. He looked back at me, a helpless look printed across his usually stern and decisive features. I contained the urge to laugh, for what must have been the hundredth time that night.

"You'll have to move her eventually, Holmes," I commented, hoping out of the cab and handing the cabbie a few coins from my pocket.

"But—Watson—! She'll wake up again!" Holmes stared at me as if I had just told him he would eventually have to stop pursuing his cases and join the criminals.

"Yes, Holmes, children do that, sometimes."

I was half way up the stairs to the door when I heard the fussing of the child who, apparently, was not satisfied with what ever effort Holmes had put into displacing her gently. I turned to see him picking her up from his lap with his hands under her arms. The expression on his face was one I will never forget for all my days—it was one of greater concentration than I have seen on his face as he paces his bedroom pondering a case, or even as he measures precise amounts of chemicals for a dangerous experiment. He might have been moving some sort of bomb that was liable to explode at any moment for all the care he put into picking her up.

It was lost on the infant.

She complained verbosely, with such a cacophony of sounds that only a child of the age before speech might make. Holmes was shocked, looking at her like he'd never quite seen her properly before as he climbed out of the cab, holding her out in front of himself. I shook my head at the picture of the two of the and opened the door that Holmes might enter without having to decide where to put the child.

As soon as we entered Mrs. Hudson was at the door—she might have been chiding us for the noise at such an hour as this (though I am not sure just what the hour was). But at the instant she set eyes on the infant that Holmes held all scolding died on her lips.

All she could think to say then was a hushed, "oh…"

We stood thus for a moment. Me looking from Holmes, to Mrs. Hudson, and back, and then away so that I might compose myself again; Holmes standing quite stiffly holding out the child in front of him, a disconcerted look upon his face; the child fussing with increasing volume, and wriggling in Holmes' hands in attempt to break free again, and Mrs. Hudson looking from Holmes to the child with her mouth slightly open.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, that is no way to treat a poor child—come here, deary, come here," Mrs. Hudson finally broke the silence, motioning for Holmes to hand the infant over, though it was clear she spoke to the child herself.

"But I—" Holmes seemed about to object, but Mrs. Hudson would have none of it.

"No _buts_! The poor dear is filthy—and probably chilled to the bone, and obviously hungry and tired."

I could see Holmes' train of thoughts written clearly on his face: the confusion at how on earth she could tell all that just by looking at the fussing child, to amazement that Mrs. Hudson had not even considered how tired or hungry _he _might be, and finally to consent that, if she knew what to do with the child, she might as well have her. He finally handed her over to our landlady, who took the child and began cooing to her immediately.

Mrs. Hudson left the room in this manner, leaving me and Holmes to stare after her.

I gave him a helpless shrug; I had learned that it really was best to leave women to their own doings when it came to children. We would have to do without one of Mrs. Hudson's meals tonight.

He sighed in resignation, apparently reading my thoughts on my face as I read agreement on his. Finally he turned and slumped up the stairs that led to our rooms.

- - -

_A/N: Short, yes, I know, more to come soon. This story was originally a one-shot, but, due to popular demand, as Watson has recorded, I've decided to continue it. I hope it lives up to your expectations!_


	3. Teapot

I was awoken the following morning by the dulcet tone of Holmes' raised voice

I was awoken the following morning by the dulcet tone of Holmes' raised voice. Perhaps, though, "raised" isn't quite the best word to describe the racket he was making. But whatever the case or the word, he decided it would be best for all of us if I slipped out of my bed and went to rescue whoever it was Holmes was shouting at—I suspected Mrs. Hudson.

My suspicions proved true, it seemed, as I walked into our sitting room to see Holmes gripping the back of his chair and glaring across is at Mrs. Hudson, who was, as far as I could see, doing nothing more harmful than holding the infant that she had saved from Holmes the previous night. It seemed, though, as I managed to discern some of the words coming out of Holmes' mouth that he felt otherwise.

"She looks like a… teapot!"

Mrs. Hudson looked like a teapot? I looked from Holmes, to Mrs. Hudson and back again, just to make certain I had heard that right. She didn't look much like a teapot to me. It occurred to me then that they were not speaking of our landlady, but of the infant.

"Good lord, is that a tea cozy?" I could not help myself.

_She_ did look like a teapot.

From the expression on the child's face, I imagine she felt much the same as Holmes did.

Holmes, who had seemed not to notice my entrance into the room, cast me a grateful smile at my remark. Mrs. Hudson looked from Holmes, to me, back to Holmes and finally gave up.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes!" She said in exasperation, thrusting the poor child back into his hands, "Have it your way. _You _take care of her."

Holmes gaped at the child as Mrs. Hudson removed herself from our sitting room, closing the door—none too quietly, I might add—behind her. The child seemed far to preoccupied with pulling at the frock she had been dressed in to care much about Holmes at this point in time. So Holmes, with no helping coming from anywhere, steeled his face and heroically put the child on the ground.

She seemed not to notice, as she gripped the front of her tea cozy—that is to say, dress—with both hands and pulled. Much to her chagrin, it did not come off. She tried a new plan of attack--the gums.

Meanwhile, Holmes, who seemed to be waiting for her to explode once she realize no one was holding her anymore, cautiously stepped around her and, walking backwards so that he might keep an eye on her (whether because he felt she needed watching, or because he wanted to know when to run if she _did _explode, I'm not sure) and finally sat down at the table where breakfast was laid.

"You know, Holmes," I commented as I sat down across from him and spreading my napkin across my lap, "I cannot help but comment on how… bare our teapot seems this morning."

"Hmm?" Holmes was still watching the child, reaching for the salt cellar, which he found by groping around, and poured into his empty tea cup. "Which one?"

"The one with tea in it," I said pointedly, pouring myself tea and helping myself to kippers.

"Oh, yes, that one," Holms said, finally taking his eyes away from the child who had, at some point between the last I had looked at her and then, fallen over backwards in her attempt to get out of the tea cozy—or whatever it was.

He poured himself some tea and started half-heartedly on his egg, glancing over his shoulder occasionally at the child. Finally deciding she was content enough he helped himself from the dish of kippers. Just as he did this, however, the child, finally deciding she could not free herself, began to wail.

Holmes did not turn around but instead took a very pointed bite of kipper, as if determined not to give in to any amount of whining or wailing. I, at this point, had glanced up at the child, and then over at Holmes.

For those of you who have not heard the sound of a child stuck in a tea cozy, it is a most unpleasant one, and it grew increasingly more shrill the longer she was left to her own devices.

"Holmes…" I started, hoping to avoid the daggers that I was certain Holmes would shoot at me shortly. "Holmes I think your tea is ready… it's… whistling…"

Holmes glared at me, threw his napkin upon his plate and stood up to retrieve the child.

Satisfied that the tea was being checked on I reached for my cup and took a sip.

"Bleech!" I looked up in time to see Holmes holding the tea cozy—which he had succeeded in taking off of the child who was now only sniffling instead of wailing—by one of the lacey frills and looking at it as if… well….

"It's _wet_!"

I snorted into my kippers, and refrained from looking up again. The next this I knew the cozy had been dropped on the table next to the teapot, and the child was left to crawl about on the floor with nothing more than her diaper on.

"Well, since you've taken it off the child, I suppose we might put it back on the pot," I commented, putting my fork down and reaching out to put the cozy back over the pot. Across the table and out of the corner of my eye I saw Holmes nod in agreement as he took a sip of his tea…

And proceeded to spit the substance across the table at me.

I thank the good lord for the presence of my napkin.

"Is there _salt _in there?" He asked, staring incredulously at the cup of tea.

"Ah, yes," I commented, wiping salted tea from my face, "I was wondering if you had put it in your cup on purpose, or if you had merely missed your egg…."

Holmes had no chance to reply to this, or even to discard the salty tea and replace it, for at that moment there was a knock at the door and Lestrade entered.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes! How's the little munchkin?" He was quite cheerful, no doubt remembering the amusement of the previous night at Holmes' expense.

Holmes cast his grey eyes towards the child, who was lying on her back and inspecting her feet, and then looked back at Lestrade, his expression mix of annoyance and exasperation.

"Well that's good," Lestrade commented, as if Holmes had actually responded, "because I've dug up her papers for you. Name's Silva Rightwood," he sat down at the table and dropped a pile of papers beside Holmes' plate.

Holmes glanced at the papers, refilled his cup of tea—not that it really needed it—and pushed it across the table towards Lestrade.

"Tea, Inspector?"

"Well I don't mind if I do, thank you, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade took the tea and raised it to his lips—I contained my amusement to the best of my ability, and was forced to avert my eyes. Before he took a sip, however, Lestrade stopped, something catching his eye. "Good lord, Mr. Holmes, is that a dress on your teapot?"


End file.
